BHM (Mult)/BBW, Diet Pills, Romance, ~MWG - deceptive weight still adds up, as two guys and a gal discover
Chapter One
Tony stretched, yawned and reached for the remote. His girlfriend, Mindy, was awakened from her nap by the movement. She smiled sleepily and touched his stubbled face.
"Did you sleep any, honey?" she asked.
"Naw, just watched the rest of the Minnesota game," he replied.
Mindy looked out the window at the rapidly-darkening streets.
"So much for our brisk walk after lunch!" she said dejectedly, scowling at her curvaceous hips. "Instead we flaked out on the couch for two hours!"
Tony laughed and ran his hand over her hips, which were filling out her Gap khakis most seductively.
"Ah, no biggie - we can go running tomorrow morning," he said reassuringly.
"Oh yeah, tomorrow morning... how many times have we told ourselves that? Today was our 'tomorrow morning' after we hit the new Chinese place on Parker Road last night, don't you remember?" was Mindy's somewhat peevish reply.
“Instead of running, you went out and picked up pastries!" she chided.
"... Oooh... pastries...." Tony replied with his best Homer Simpson-like monotone. He chuckled to himself as he recalled that on his way to the bakery, he had also hit the drive-through at Burger King for his usual four sausage-and-egg croissantwiches and two hash rounds. But Mindy had no idea. She'd been into a hidden stash of tollhouse cookies
"Yeah, well, I just noticed, it isn't tomorrow yet... so we can cut loose today!" Tony joked as he friskily tussled with her.
"Besides, I am in good shape, right?" he asked, flexing his biceps and throwing his chest out. He indeed had an impressive musculature; when he expanded his chest, the buttons on his old flannel shirt pulled taut over his bulbous pectorals. He conveniently ignored the shelf of flab forming under his ribcage, which sagged forward against his shirtfront, competing for hegemony with his powerful chest.
Suddenly noticing how his clothes were fitting more snugly, Tony made a mental note to take an extra Xytrim pill that night to nip this problem in the bud. Wandering to the scale, he looked at the damage and saw, indeed, that his weight had strayed upward by nine pounds since the last time he had checked it, some months before.
It showed 209 pounds, and Tony was slothfully determined to keep his weight at 200, no matter what. Time to take five per day, instead of the four he'd been taking for the past few months. He popped the pills...and joined Mindy for some aerobic exercise in bed, before waking up at 199 the next day.
Before we go on, a bit of background is in order. How had Tony come to depend on these pills to maintain his svelte physique? If we look backward a few years, we would see that Tony had been a high school jock: football, wrestling, and track had kept him busy for the full school year. Regular weight training and the ceaseless aerobic demands of his sports had kept him at 180 pounds on his 5-11 frame.
With his arrival at college, Tony had, like most freshmen, kicked back and relaxed. Regular exercise became a thing of the past, replaced by regular beer nights out... and his metabolism, after struggling to stem the tide of decreasing caloric burn and increasing input, had sagged slightly, putting him at 185 by Christmas, 190 by Easter, and 195 by the end of the school year.
Tony reacted as do most Frosh when presented with the fait accompli of the 'Frosh 15,' and his summer was a frenzy of activity to work his blooming love handles down to a more respectable status: exercise and diet were strictly enforced. He nearly succeeded, returning to his sophomore year at 185 lb., but with the additional five pounds attributable to muscle gained in his workouts, as well as to an inch of growth in height.
Once lured back into the calorie caves of college dorm life, however, Tony's disciplined habits went by the wayside, and he rebounded to 195 by Christmas break. New Year's found him at 200, and this previously-unimaginable weight was supplemented by ten more pounds over the next three months. Accordingly, it was with a sense of guilty horror that Tony found himself, a week before Spring Break, feverishly trying on his swimsuits and shorts, cropped T's and vests, which had lain dormant since last summer.
His winter wardrobe had indeed been forgiving, although even his new 36" jeans, exchanged at Christmas for the 34's his well-meaning family had bought for him, were protesting the load that 210 pounds were putting on the waistline. As for his summer clothes, most of which were in 33" waists from two summers ago, he was embarrassed to see that they didn't come close to "slipping on" over his thicker thighs and rounder gluts.
Once the shorts were yanked up to almost-normal height, they were prevented from closing by his ponderous love handles and the beginnings of a discernible gut. He hightailed it to the bathroom, which was blessed with a reliable scale, and was depressed to see the result: 211.3 pounds.
Tony's reaction was admirable, a true testimony to his generation: he promptly went to his fridge, dumped its high-fat contents in the wastebasket, and literally ran to the fitness center. Three hours later, our hero had done the treadmill for 45 minutes straight at maximum incline; circuit trained every muscle group in his body; and sweated in the sauna for 30 minutes, all of it performed in the rubber suit he had retained from his high school wrestling's 'make weight' days.
As he half-heartedly jogged home from the fitness center, Tony mentally pictured how much weight he would have lost. His body cried out for hydration, as it had sweated mercilessly in the rubber singlet he forced himself into. The rubber, having lain idle for two years in the bottom of his dorm trunk, was itself showing signs of the fatigue Tony was feeling: grayish bands were appearing on the areas where the material was working hardest to contain Tony's newly-resurgent paunch.
Arriving back at the dorm, Tony immediately stripped off the torture suit, tossing it across the room where it landed on the radiator cover. He wrapped a towel around his "waist" (actually, instead of his past practice of cinching the towel tight around his hips, he attempted to cover the evidence of his decadent excesses by wearing the towel 5-6" higher, around the soft part of his middle, the way he had once laughed that 'old men' wore their towels.) Once so adorned, Tony grabbed his bathroom basket and headed down the hall.
About 3/4 of the way there, Tony realized why the old men seemed to be always clutching the towels around their waists... his frantic puffing and panting, and the undulation of his gut as he loped down the hall, quickly worked the towel loose, and he had to grab at it as it began to slip off.
No matter - Tony made it to the bathroom and strode to the scale. Dropping the towel and kicking off his flip-flops, he fairly pounced on the scale, daring it to lie to him. This it did not do; the digital readout flickered momentarily, then showed the results of his three hours of torture: 207.5 pounds.
"Hot dog!" screamed Tony. "That is 3.8 pounds! At this rate, I will be at 195 in uh... three or four days."
Tony leapt into the shower, washed the hard-earned sweat off his body, and raced to meet his friends at Friday's. Still conscious that exercise alone would not take care of his problem by the start of Spring Break, Tony eschewed beer, instead ordering a Stoly and cranberry, then a second. He also sanctimoniously forswore any chicken wings ordered by his crowd, eating only the celery sticks (plain) that were commonly served with chicken wings.
His buddies laughed at him. "Hey, at least some one is finally gonna eat the celery sticks! What's the matter, Ton, you on a diet?"
The kidding came from Chet Morton, a fellow traveler with Tony in the up-again, down-again cycle that most ex-jocks experience at college. Only it seemed to Tony that Chet, while he was eating as much as ever, looked a bit leaner. He asked him as much at the dartboard later.
"Yeah, man, I am back down to 180," confirmed Chet, taking a long swig of his beer as he nodded.
"No way, how long did it take you to do that? I mean, you were pushing 200, weren't you, Chet?" was Tony's stunned reply.
"I was about 200, 203, give or take," Chet said cagily... then dropped the bombshell. "And I lost it a week ago without any change in my lifestyle."
Again, Tony's faintly-doubled chin dropped as he sipped on his Stoly and cranberry.
"It took you only a week to lose it? Twenty pounds? That is amazing!" he opined.
"No. I mean I lost it a week ago. Exactly. I went to bed at 202, and woke up at 182. Thanks to these..." Chet furtively reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small tin.
"'Smalltoyd's?' what the heck are they, peppermints?" laughed Tony as he looked at the box.
"No, you twit... I am beginning to think that some of that fat you've packed on has settled between your ears!" groused Chet. "I carry a few extras in this old candy box. They are Xytrim, a new product, not even approved by the FDA. My cousin got them in Mexico last time he was down. You take one a day for each ten pounds you gotta lose. Take them for as long as you need to keep the weight off, basically until you get back in shape, cut back on the cheeseburgers, you know... until you, I mean, we, work it off naturally."
"You lose that much? How ..."
“They don't actually make you lose the fat, they just sort of micro-encapsulate it so the fat cells shrink. Each dose lasts 24 hours, so you gotta keep taking them as long as you want to stay slim." Chet knew that Tony's interest was piqued, but Tony's anti-drug morality was even stronger.
"Uh, wow... well, I think I will do it the old fashioned way. I already lost four pounds just today, in one workout, and I only need to drop about 12 more..." Tony said, finishing his third Stoly. His judgment somewhat impaired, he agreed to Chet's seemingly innocent offer of a "nightcap" glass of beer from the communal pitcher.
From there, it was not difficult for Tony to fall into his "old" habits, and by 1:00 AM, his early discipline had been abandoned in favor of two dozen wings smothered in Bleu Cheese, 5 slices of the 'coronary special' pizza, and the better part of two pitchers. He sauntered back to the dorm with Chet after closing time, looking a trifle enviously at Chet's already-flat abs, and unconsciously sucked in his gut as he walked... which only made him breath heavily and seem more out of shape than he, in fact, was.
Tony's damage continued that night when Chet persuaded him to stop by the local Denny's for some company while Chet had a snack. He confined himself, initially, to a glass of ice water, then a tall orange juice, then a tall milk, as
Chet dug into his French Toast and sausage with a vengeance.
"Ah, what the heck, I’ll do a few extra miles on the treadmill," Tony rationalized as he caved and ordered Eggs Benedict, which arrived piping hot and smothered in Bernaise sauce.
The next morning (or, rather, afternoon; Tony had slept until 12:15, completely missing his morning classes) was a bit of a comeuppance for Tony. He knew that his four-pound drop the previous day was partially water weight, but he also rationalized that he had weighed in late in the day, after he had eaten two meals already. Surely his morning weight would be lower, right? He bounded to the bathroom with a purposeful look in his eye, and made sure to use the toilet before he whipped off the towel and hopped on the scale again. His eyes widened...
"Holy cow! 213!!!" he wailed, grateful that the bathroom was empty at that hour. The tile walls seemed to repeat the echo for a second, further darkening his mood.
Just at that time, Chet puttered in, a sly smile on his face.
"Hey, Ton, how's the, ah... diet coming along?" he mocked, hopping on the scale and breaking into a full grin when Tony, his curiosity even more piqued, glanced at the monitor... 183.
"Whoops, better not take too many of those babies... two is enough for now!" crowed Chet, as he patted Tony's sagging gut condescendingly. Too late, Tony sucked it in with some effort.
Tony showered glumly, noticing a slight rash beginning to form on his sides, the legacy of too much sweating in that blasted suit yesterday... but he was not one to quit! He figured his current weight, allowed for a target weight of 200 (he gave up on the 195 number) and figured, at 4 pounds loss per day, he could lose 12 pounds in... three days. Just enough time! His plane left Saturday... it was now Tuesday. Herculean effort and Job-like discipline could get him there by Friday! He resolved to try.
Tony's workout was less satisfying that day than the previous day's. His rubber suit, which he had foolishly allowed to dry out on the radiator cover for 24 hours, was tighter than ever, and it quickly began to give him that sort of 'prickly heat' feeling that he loathed from his high school wrestling days.
He wished he had bought some Mexsana powder to counter the rash that was rapidly enveloping the fleshier portions of his anatomy. Meanwhile, the suit turned grayer, a "bloom" such as appears on fine chocolate that has been left in a warm room now spreading over its entire midriff region. He also resolved to forego the bar for the next few days.
Tony was pleased to see that he was down to 210 by the next morning, a loss of three pounds, almost what he had lost the first day. He was wrestling into his rubber suit (now with a heavy coating of Mexsana with cornstarch on his tender skin to alleviate the rash) and grunted as he laced up his cross-trainers. He was going to go running, to sneak in a quick extra workout before his main workout.
Tony was beginning to like the warm feeling that the rubber suit gave him; it loosened sore muscles (and at the pace he had been going, almost all of his muscles were sore) and it acted like a much-needed girdle, holding in his expansive paunch and making him look merely well-padded, not fat. He did not notice that the chalky 'bloom' was beginning to rub off the surface of the suit onto his tank top. Under the shirt, a hairline spiderweb of tiny cracks was appearing on the surface of the rubber. The suit was finally yielding to fatigue.
Tony loped along at a 7.5-minute mile pace, faster than he was really conditioned for. His diaphragm expanded manfully, gulping in great quantities of cold wintry air, struggling to fill his lungs fast enough to exchange the oxygen for C-O-2 that his muscles craved.
Each time he breathed in, his stomach expanded, then contracted... expanded, then contracted... rrrrrriiiiiiiipppp! The end, for the singlet, was horrifyingly sudden. A small split appeared on the right side, over his love handle, and opened all the way down to mid-thigh, where it was stopped by the hemstitching. Tony was so surprised that he tripped, and fell skidding into the muddy patch by the side of the path.
Tony looked at his knee, which had been opened up pretty well by his tumble and was bleeding profusely.
"Oh, great, abso-friggin-lutely great!" he swore. He yanked off his tank top, the only cloth he had on him, and tied it tightly around his knee. He attempted to conceal his rashy, reddened flesh and CK briefs by casually holding his hand against the breach in his breeches. The long, limping walk back to his dorm was, thankfully, interrupted by a friendly toot on a horn -
Chet, of course - offering him a ride back. He accepted gratefully, and thanked his stars that the rip in his rubber suit was on the side facing away from Chet. Chet soon erased any hopes Tony harbored of preserving a few shreds of his dignity.
"Looks like that stupid suit has bit the dust. Was betting it would blow out on you, the way you been shoehorning your fat ass into it the past few days...how you gonna work that gut off now, Tony, old pal?" Chet grinned snidely.
In his present state of mind, Tony was willing to yield to Chet's pressure, and he accepted the offer of 25 tablets... two per day, to drop 20 pounds and keep it off, for 10 days, with a few in reserve.
"After that, you can see if you want to continue it, or get back in shape the *yawn* honest, old-fashioned way, Ton! But in the meantime, at least go on Spring break looking like you haven't swallowed a watermelon, man! I mean, it is unsightly, at least on the beach... sweaters cover a multitude of sins up here in the northern climes," Chet blithered on.
Somewhat shamefacedly, Tony accepted the pills, and popped two after Chet had driven him to the infirmary for stitches and a tetanus shot. He fell into bed that night, sore, fat, disgusted with himself for letting himself get outa shape, and for taking Chet's easy way out... and highly skeptical that any results would come of it.
The next day, Tony had sat up on his bed and was only reminded of his injury by the pulling of the stitches as he bent his knee sitting up on the side of the bed.
"Ouch!" he said, drawing the leg of his pajamas up gently, to survey the bruise and scab that resulted from his goon-move of the previous day. But right away, he noticed something else - while his knee hurt, it wasn't as painful as it had been the previous night. And his sore, aching muscles felt completely restored!
"Well, whatever that stuff is, it is one heck of a painkiller," Tony chuckled, getting ready to hoist himself to his feet. He almost pitched himself over when he shot up from a sitting position like a springboard diver, and had to grab the desk to steady himself. His surprise continued when his drawstring waist jammies promptly dropped to the floor around his ankles.
Then he caught a glimpse of himself in his mirror... holy cow, that stuff had worked! Love handles... gone. Gut... history! Chest defined once more, arms showing some peaks... why he almost had abs, and he never had abs outside of deepest, hardest-working summer! He quickly retied his pajamas, a full three inches tighter around his hips, and walked with only a slight limp to the bathroom, eager to see what the scale said...
193! He was practically back to his last summer weight! He ran to Chet's room, to tell him the 'news,' which Chet of course, received with typical sang-froid: "Hey, bud, I told you it would work. Now let's go to the cafeteria and pig out!"
Tony accepted joyfully, and waded into lasagna, fried potatoes, calamari, four slabs of pie, and assorted other caloric bombs with a gusto that he had barely shown in his most decadent days of yore. Several days of this lifestyle, and he stepped nonchalantly onto the scale in the bathroom the morning of his departure to check his weight. Whoops, 199, he had backslid a bit... he did notice some small love handles had reappeared around his previously almost-chiseled obliques.
An anxious conference with Chet resulted in an upping of his daily dosage to 3 tablets a day, and a reminder that the pills don't actually keep you from gaining weight, they just temporarily erase any weight you might have gained. Tony popped three of the Xytrim tablets, and got on the late flight. He awoke the next day in Florida at a svelte, indeed, quite buff, 190 pounds.
That week was amazing - Tony ate like there was no tomorrow. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, he popped his three tablets nightly and woke up apparently unchanged. His exercise regimen consisted of strolling across the street, laying waste to $10 worth of McDonald's finest breakfast items, and tanning his hide on the sunny beach.
XYTrim
By Beefster
Three chapters of an interesting but incomplete story with an obvious direction offered here for adoption and completion
By Beefster
Three chapters of an interesting but incomplete story with an obvious direction offered here for adoption and completion
Chapter One
Tony stretched, yawned and reached for the remote. His girlfriend, Mindy, was awakened from her nap by the movement. She smiled sleepily and touched his stubbled face.
"Did you sleep any, honey?" she asked.
"Naw, just watched the rest of the Minnesota game," he replied.
Mindy looked out the window at the rapidly-darkening streets.
"So much for our brisk walk after lunch!" she said dejectedly, scowling at her curvaceous hips. "Instead we flaked out on the couch for two hours!"
Tony laughed and ran his hand over her hips, which were filling out her Gap khakis most seductively.
"Ah, no biggie - we can go running tomorrow morning," he said reassuringly.
"Oh yeah, tomorrow morning... how many times have we told ourselves that? Today was our 'tomorrow morning' after we hit the new Chinese place on Parker Road last night, don't you remember?" was Mindy's somewhat peevish reply.
“Instead of running, you went out and picked up pastries!" she chided.
"... Oooh... pastries...." Tony replied with his best Homer Simpson-like monotone. He chuckled to himself as he recalled that on his way to the bakery, he had also hit the drive-through at Burger King for his usual four sausage-and-egg croissantwiches and two hash rounds. But Mindy had no idea. She'd been into a hidden stash of tollhouse cookies
"Yeah, well, I just noticed, it isn't tomorrow yet... so we can cut loose today!" Tony joked as he friskily tussled with her.
"Besides, I am in good shape, right?" he asked, flexing his biceps and throwing his chest out. He indeed had an impressive musculature; when he expanded his chest, the buttons on his old flannel shirt pulled taut over his bulbous pectorals. He conveniently ignored the shelf of flab forming under his ribcage, which sagged forward against his shirtfront, competing for hegemony with his powerful chest.
Suddenly noticing how his clothes were fitting more snugly, Tony made a mental note to take an extra Xytrim pill that night to nip this problem in the bud. Wandering to the scale, he looked at the damage and saw, indeed, that his weight had strayed upward by nine pounds since the last time he had checked it, some months before.
It showed 209 pounds, and Tony was slothfully determined to keep his weight at 200, no matter what. Time to take five per day, instead of the four he'd been taking for the past few months. He popped the pills...and joined Mindy for some aerobic exercise in bed, before waking up at 199 the next day.
Before we go on, a bit of background is in order. How had Tony come to depend on these pills to maintain his svelte physique? If we look backward a few years, we would see that Tony had been a high school jock: football, wrestling, and track had kept him busy for the full school year. Regular weight training and the ceaseless aerobic demands of his sports had kept him at 180 pounds on his 5-11 frame.
With his arrival at college, Tony had, like most freshmen, kicked back and relaxed. Regular exercise became a thing of the past, replaced by regular beer nights out... and his metabolism, after struggling to stem the tide of decreasing caloric burn and increasing input, had sagged slightly, putting him at 185 by Christmas, 190 by Easter, and 195 by the end of the school year.
Tony reacted as do most Frosh when presented with the fait accompli of the 'Frosh 15,' and his summer was a frenzy of activity to work his blooming love handles down to a more respectable status: exercise and diet were strictly enforced. He nearly succeeded, returning to his sophomore year at 185 lb., but with the additional five pounds attributable to muscle gained in his workouts, as well as to an inch of growth in height.
Once lured back into the calorie caves of college dorm life, however, Tony's disciplined habits went by the wayside, and he rebounded to 195 by Christmas break. New Year's found him at 200, and this previously-unimaginable weight was supplemented by ten more pounds over the next three months. Accordingly, it was with a sense of guilty horror that Tony found himself, a week before Spring Break, feverishly trying on his swimsuits and shorts, cropped T's and vests, which had lain dormant since last summer.
His winter wardrobe had indeed been forgiving, although even his new 36" jeans, exchanged at Christmas for the 34's his well-meaning family had bought for him, were protesting the load that 210 pounds were putting on the waistline. As for his summer clothes, most of which were in 33" waists from two summers ago, he was embarrassed to see that they didn't come close to "slipping on" over his thicker thighs and rounder gluts.
Once the shorts were yanked up to almost-normal height, they were prevented from closing by his ponderous love handles and the beginnings of a discernible gut. He hightailed it to the bathroom, which was blessed with a reliable scale, and was depressed to see the result: 211.3 pounds.
Tony's reaction was admirable, a true testimony to his generation: he promptly went to his fridge, dumped its high-fat contents in the wastebasket, and literally ran to the fitness center. Three hours later, our hero had done the treadmill for 45 minutes straight at maximum incline; circuit trained every muscle group in his body; and sweated in the sauna for 30 minutes, all of it performed in the rubber suit he had retained from his high school wrestling's 'make weight' days.
As he half-heartedly jogged home from the fitness center, Tony mentally pictured how much weight he would have lost. His body cried out for hydration, as it had sweated mercilessly in the rubber singlet he forced himself into. The rubber, having lain idle for two years in the bottom of his dorm trunk, was itself showing signs of the fatigue Tony was feeling: grayish bands were appearing on the areas where the material was working hardest to contain Tony's newly-resurgent paunch.
Arriving back at the dorm, Tony immediately stripped off the torture suit, tossing it across the room where it landed on the radiator cover. He wrapped a towel around his "waist" (actually, instead of his past practice of cinching the towel tight around his hips, he attempted to cover the evidence of his decadent excesses by wearing the towel 5-6" higher, around the soft part of his middle, the way he had once laughed that 'old men' wore their towels.) Once so adorned, Tony grabbed his bathroom basket and headed down the hall.
About 3/4 of the way there, Tony realized why the old men seemed to be always clutching the towels around their waists... his frantic puffing and panting, and the undulation of his gut as he loped down the hall, quickly worked the towel loose, and he had to grab at it as it began to slip off.
No matter - Tony made it to the bathroom and strode to the scale. Dropping the towel and kicking off his flip-flops, he fairly pounced on the scale, daring it to lie to him. This it did not do; the digital readout flickered momentarily, then showed the results of his three hours of torture: 207.5 pounds.
"Hot dog!" screamed Tony. "That is 3.8 pounds! At this rate, I will be at 195 in uh... three or four days."
Tony leapt into the shower, washed the hard-earned sweat off his body, and raced to meet his friends at Friday's. Still conscious that exercise alone would not take care of his problem by the start of Spring Break, Tony eschewed beer, instead ordering a Stoly and cranberry, then a second. He also sanctimoniously forswore any chicken wings ordered by his crowd, eating only the celery sticks (plain) that were commonly served with chicken wings.
His buddies laughed at him. "Hey, at least some one is finally gonna eat the celery sticks! What's the matter, Ton, you on a diet?"
The kidding came from Chet Morton, a fellow traveler with Tony in the up-again, down-again cycle that most ex-jocks experience at college. Only it seemed to Tony that Chet, while he was eating as much as ever, looked a bit leaner. He asked him as much at the dartboard later.
"Yeah, man, I am back down to 180," confirmed Chet, taking a long swig of his beer as he nodded.
"No way, how long did it take you to do that? I mean, you were pushing 200, weren't you, Chet?" was Tony's stunned reply.
"I was about 200, 203, give or take," Chet said cagily... then dropped the bombshell. "And I lost it a week ago without any change in my lifestyle."
Again, Tony's faintly-doubled chin dropped as he sipped on his Stoly and cranberry.
"It took you only a week to lose it? Twenty pounds? That is amazing!" he opined.
"No. I mean I lost it a week ago. Exactly. I went to bed at 202, and woke up at 182. Thanks to these..." Chet furtively reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out a small tin.
"'Smalltoyd's?' what the heck are they, peppermints?" laughed Tony as he looked at the box.
"No, you twit... I am beginning to think that some of that fat you've packed on has settled between your ears!" groused Chet. "I carry a few extras in this old candy box. They are Xytrim, a new product, not even approved by the FDA. My cousin got them in Mexico last time he was down. You take one a day for each ten pounds you gotta lose. Take them for as long as you need to keep the weight off, basically until you get back in shape, cut back on the cheeseburgers, you know... until you, I mean, we, work it off naturally."
"You lose that much? How ..."
“They don't actually make you lose the fat, they just sort of micro-encapsulate it so the fat cells shrink. Each dose lasts 24 hours, so you gotta keep taking them as long as you want to stay slim." Chet knew that Tony's interest was piqued, but Tony's anti-drug morality was even stronger.
"Uh, wow... well, I think I will do it the old fashioned way. I already lost four pounds just today, in one workout, and I only need to drop about 12 more..." Tony said, finishing his third Stoly. His judgment somewhat impaired, he agreed to Chet's seemingly innocent offer of a "nightcap" glass of beer from the communal pitcher.
From there, it was not difficult for Tony to fall into his "old" habits, and by 1:00 AM, his early discipline had been abandoned in favor of two dozen wings smothered in Bleu Cheese, 5 slices of the 'coronary special' pizza, and the better part of two pitchers. He sauntered back to the dorm with Chet after closing time, looking a trifle enviously at Chet's already-flat abs, and unconsciously sucked in his gut as he walked... which only made him breath heavily and seem more out of shape than he, in fact, was.
Tony's damage continued that night when Chet persuaded him to stop by the local Denny's for some company while Chet had a snack. He confined himself, initially, to a glass of ice water, then a tall orange juice, then a tall milk, as
Chet dug into his French Toast and sausage with a vengeance.
"Ah, what the heck, I’ll do a few extra miles on the treadmill," Tony rationalized as he caved and ordered Eggs Benedict, which arrived piping hot and smothered in Bernaise sauce.
The next morning (or, rather, afternoon; Tony had slept until 12:15, completely missing his morning classes) was a bit of a comeuppance for Tony. He knew that his four-pound drop the previous day was partially water weight, but he also rationalized that he had weighed in late in the day, after he had eaten two meals already. Surely his morning weight would be lower, right? He bounded to the bathroom with a purposeful look in his eye, and made sure to use the toilet before he whipped off the towel and hopped on the scale again. His eyes widened...
"Holy cow! 213!!!" he wailed, grateful that the bathroom was empty at that hour. The tile walls seemed to repeat the echo for a second, further darkening his mood.
Just at that time, Chet puttered in, a sly smile on his face.
"Hey, Ton, how's the, ah... diet coming along?" he mocked, hopping on the scale and breaking into a full grin when Tony, his curiosity even more piqued, glanced at the monitor... 183.
"Whoops, better not take too many of those babies... two is enough for now!" crowed Chet, as he patted Tony's sagging gut condescendingly. Too late, Tony sucked it in with some effort.
Tony showered glumly, noticing a slight rash beginning to form on his sides, the legacy of too much sweating in that blasted suit yesterday... but he was not one to quit! He figured his current weight, allowed for a target weight of 200 (he gave up on the 195 number) and figured, at 4 pounds loss per day, he could lose 12 pounds in... three days. Just enough time! His plane left Saturday... it was now Tuesday. Herculean effort and Job-like discipline could get him there by Friday! He resolved to try.
Tony's workout was less satisfying that day than the previous day's. His rubber suit, which he had foolishly allowed to dry out on the radiator cover for 24 hours, was tighter than ever, and it quickly began to give him that sort of 'prickly heat' feeling that he loathed from his high school wrestling days.
He wished he had bought some Mexsana powder to counter the rash that was rapidly enveloping the fleshier portions of his anatomy. Meanwhile, the suit turned grayer, a "bloom" such as appears on fine chocolate that has been left in a warm room now spreading over its entire midriff region. He also resolved to forego the bar for the next few days.
Tony was pleased to see that he was down to 210 by the next morning, a loss of three pounds, almost what he had lost the first day. He was wrestling into his rubber suit (now with a heavy coating of Mexsana with cornstarch on his tender skin to alleviate the rash) and grunted as he laced up his cross-trainers. He was going to go running, to sneak in a quick extra workout before his main workout.
Tony was beginning to like the warm feeling that the rubber suit gave him; it loosened sore muscles (and at the pace he had been going, almost all of his muscles were sore) and it acted like a much-needed girdle, holding in his expansive paunch and making him look merely well-padded, not fat. He did not notice that the chalky 'bloom' was beginning to rub off the surface of the suit onto his tank top. Under the shirt, a hairline spiderweb of tiny cracks was appearing on the surface of the rubber. The suit was finally yielding to fatigue.
Tony loped along at a 7.5-minute mile pace, faster than he was really conditioned for. His diaphragm expanded manfully, gulping in great quantities of cold wintry air, struggling to fill his lungs fast enough to exchange the oxygen for C-O-2 that his muscles craved.
Each time he breathed in, his stomach expanded, then contracted... expanded, then contracted... rrrrrriiiiiiiipppp! The end, for the singlet, was horrifyingly sudden. A small split appeared on the right side, over his love handle, and opened all the way down to mid-thigh, where it was stopped by the hemstitching. Tony was so surprised that he tripped, and fell skidding into the muddy patch by the side of the path.
Tony looked at his knee, which had been opened up pretty well by his tumble and was bleeding profusely.
"Oh, great, abso-friggin-lutely great!" he swore. He yanked off his tank top, the only cloth he had on him, and tied it tightly around his knee. He attempted to conceal his rashy, reddened flesh and CK briefs by casually holding his hand against the breach in his breeches. The long, limping walk back to his dorm was, thankfully, interrupted by a friendly toot on a horn -
Chet, of course - offering him a ride back. He accepted gratefully, and thanked his stars that the rip in his rubber suit was on the side facing away from Chet. Chet soon erased any hopes Tony harbored of preserving a few shreds of his dignity.
"Looks like that stupid suit has bit the dust. Was betting it would blow out on you, the way you been shoehorning your fat ass into it the past few days...how you gonna work that gut off now, Tony, old pal?" Chet grinned snidely.
In his present state of mind, Tony was willing to yield to Chet's pressure, and he accepted the offer of 25 tablets... two per day, to drop 20 pounds and keep it off, for 10 days, with a few in reserve.
"After that, you can see if you want to continue it, or get back in shape the *yawn* honest, old-fashioned way, Ton! But in the meantime, at least go on Spring break looking like you haven't swallowed a watermelon, man! I mean, it is unsightly, at least on the beach... sweaters cover a multitude of sins up here in the northern climes," Chet blithered on.
Somewhat shamefacedly, Tony accepted the pills, and popped two after Chet had driven him to the infirmary for stitches and a tetanus shot. He fell into bed that night, sore, fat, disgusted with himself for letting himself get outa shape, and for taking Chet's easy way out... and highly skeptical that any results would come of it.
The next day, Tony had sat up on his bed and was only reminded of his injury by the pulling of the stitches as he bent his knee sitting up on the side of the bed.
"Ouch!" he said, drawing the leg of his pajamas up gently, to survey the bruise and scab that resulted from his goon-move of the previous day. But right away, he noticed something else - while his knee hurt, it wasn't as painful as it had been the previous night. And his sore, aching muscles felt completely restored!
"Well, whatever that stuff is, it is one heck of a painkiller," Tony chuckled, getting ready to hoist himself to his feet. He almost pitched himself over when he shot up from a sitting position like a springboard diver, and had to grab the desk to steady himself. His surprise continued when his drawstring waist jammies promptly dropped to the floor around his ankles.
Then he caught a glimpse of himself in his mirror... holy cow, that stuff had worked! Love handles... gone. Gut... history! Chest defined once more, arms showing some peaks... why he almost had abs, and he never had abs outside of deepest, hardest-working summer! He quickly retied his pajamas, a full three inches tighter around his hips, and walked with only a slight limp to the bathroom, eager to see what the scale said...
193! He was practically back to his last summer weight! He ran to Chet's room, to tell him the 'news,' which Chet of course, received with typical sang-froid: "Hey, bud, I told you it would work. Now let's go to the cafeteria and pig out!"
Tony accepted joyfully, and waded into lasagna, fried potatoes, calamari, four slabs of pie, and assorted other caloric bombs with a gusto that he had barely shown in his most decadent days of yore. Several days of this lifestyle, and he stepped nonchalantly onto the scale in the bathroom the morning of his departure to check his weight. Whoops, 199, he had backslid a bit... he did notice some small love handles had reappeared around his previously almost-chiseled obliques.
An anxious conference with Chet resulted in an upping of his daily dosage to 3 tablets a day, and a reminder that the pills don't actually keep you from gaining weight, they just temporarily erase any weight you might have gained. Tony popped three of the Xytrim tablets, and got on the late flight. He awoke the next day in Florida at a svelte, indeed, quite buff, 190 pounds.
That week was amazing - Tony ate like there was no tomorrow. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, he popped his three tablets nightly and woke up apparently unchanged. His exercise regimen consisted of strolling across the street, laying waste to $10 worth of McDonald's finest breakfast items, and tanning his hide on the sunny beach.
